The Lost Book of Narnia
by Victoria Lilly
Summary: A little adventure after the siblings tumble back out of the wardrobe. Movie based. What happeneds when Peter stumbles upon a book that seemed to find him? Something C.S. Lewis never showed the world. Can they ever get back to narnia? RR!
1. A Dream, A Letter

Disclaimer: Yeah..you know the drill... Sadly I only own my OC and the plot, everything else is C. S. Lewis's

Author Note: This is just alittle something I had to get out of my system becasue I'm hopelessly in love with William Moseley (Peter) and in love with the Narnia movie! I'm no expert on the whole Narnia series so please forgive me if I'm very wrong on some facts. This is based on the movie and a little adventure that happens afterwards; it is totally non-canon realated! Hope ya'll enjoy!

**The Lost Book of Narnia**

_"Dear Peter," Jadis said to him, as she gripped him hard, holding him back by his hair, "Don't you know? Love can't win over _all_ evil. Love is just another excuse to get hurt, dear boy. You should have stayed in that wardrobe and never come! Never have stepped foot in this land that you call your own! You should have died in battle were I did! Good and Evil always go on, Peter! You can never stop it! You can never escape from the grasp of evil, Peter! I have risen just like your Great Lion! No one is here to save you now! No one is here to hear you scream as I rip your heart from your brave chest! Why do you want so much to be a hero, Peter? Books are written so that good always conqures evil...but why do you think there are none the other way around? But my dear Peter, I will tell you a secret, and only you my dear boy, as long as there is good left in the world, I will never...never be far away from the end of your sword!" _

Peter Pevensie jotled from his sleep. Sweat drenched his body and he shook. He shook the dream from his head. It had haunted him every night. It had scared him from his sleep. It had seared itself into his memory, forcing him to replay it over and over. And it burnt up his soul.

It had been several weeks since he and his siblings had tumbled back out of the wardrobe that had been the gateway to the magical world, Narnia. Not a second had past since they had left and come back. They'd grown up there. They'd lived their whole lives there and ruled as Kings and Queens. And now, he could feel himself feeling more like a kid again, and less as the adult he once was. He could feel himself wanting to play crickett or go on long jogs through the fields. But their adventures in the magical land seemed to be all over now. There was no way to get back through the wardrobe. And they'd tried, trust me! But it seemed unreal. Unreal how all that time had past. Unreal how all of it had been yanked away from them in a few feet into a wardrobe. Unreal how that moment, when Lucy wanted to play hide-and-seek, changed their lives always and forever.

He'd questioned his sanity many times in the past few weeks.His siblings all had. They remembered all of it, though. And that took away some of the worry on that matter. But what would become of Narnia and the lands beyond it? They weren't there to lead and rule and give guidance when asked. They were here, in a musty ole room, piled with stuffy furniture and uncomfortable sheets. They were not where they were needed, wanted. They, were just kids again in an ole mansion while a long World War II raged off in a far away land, over matters that some couldn't seem to comprehend. In matters only men who had been to war had seen. Matters, _he_ had seen. And a picture of his father flashed in his head.

His heart rose and fell in his chest as he thought about his father. His heart rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose, fell. And somewhere, out there, maybe, just maybe, his father's didn't get one last chance to. He chased the thought from his mind. He rubbed his eyes, and latched his fingers into his hair. He hated thinking about his father. Let me rephrase that, he hated thinking about his father at war.

The same man that used to stand by the window for hours and just stare. Stare out into the nothingness of the window, and every now and then, sigh. And Peter, a hundred times and a hundred times again, watching him, wondered, what he could be thinking about. Watching. Watching. What was there to think _that_ hard about. Was life, _that_ complicated and miserable, to just look out the window and let it all pass you by? To let it slip through your fingers like sand? What was he thinking?

And then, Peter remembered, his father's gaze would soften, as Lucy trotted into the room, holding up a big picture of stick figures she'd drawn with trees and a dodgy house and a dog and a sunshine. And his father's face would brighten into a seemingly never ending smile, and he'd scoop the little Lucy into his arms and tell her that it was the best picture she'd ever drawn and go off to find room on the fridge for it. And not come back to that window. No. Not that day. And Peter, then, would be satisfied.

Almost. Almost. But then why could he never make his father happy? Why would his face not brighten as his son entered the room to sit down and watch his father stare out the window into the nothingness? Why? Why had his father never hugged him? Why had his father ever said he loved him? Why had his father gotten up every morning before the sunshine smiled down, in the dark cold and lit the fire up for his family? Why had he slaved away constantly to provide for them? Sundays too. Why had he gone to war? Gone to war and left his family? And why?...

Why had Peter not written his father in over two months to tell him he missed him? To tell him he wanted to make him smile, too? To tell him that Lucy still drew beautiful pictures? To tell him that the window in the house was broken by the evil of war? To tell him of his adventures, no matter how childish or crazy they may sound? To tell him that he was always needed here? To tell him thank you? No one ever did. To tell him...To tell him he loved him.

Peter's heart stirred his his chest. Pushing his chills from his haunting dream out of his thoughts, he slowly shifting out of bed, and slipping a shirt over his bare chest, he went to his still-packed trunk and took out paper and pen.

**_Dear Father,_**


	2. Those Winter Sundays

Disclaimer: This poem is by Robert Hayden. It's totally his genious and I give him props! I think its absolutely gorgeous!

Author note: This poem is what Peter's thoughts were based on in the first chappy, and kinda something else.

Edit: I've had many complaints about this chappy, and I have to say, they were all totally right! I'm quite sorry I let you all down with this one, so I fixed it up a tad and I hope its much better this time around! Thank you for all your very helpfull critism!

**Those Winter Sundays **

Sundays too my father got up early  
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,  
then with cracked hands that ached  
from labor in the weekday weather made  
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.  
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,  
and slowly I would rise and dress,  
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

speaking indifferently to him,  
who had driven out the cold  
and polished my good shoes as well.  
What did I know, what did I know  
of love's austere and lonely offices?

-Robert Hayden

XxX

"What are you doing Susan?" Edmund asked, as he walked in to find Susan with an open dictionary and Peter and Lucy slumped in chairs.

"I'm trying to kill some time!" Susan exclaimed, as though she'd been asked that question a million times before." It's blizzarding everywhere if you haven't noticed!"

"Well your gonna kill more than time if you go on any longer with that!" Edmund said, and relief washed over Lucy's face. But his brother, he saw, was completely wrapped up in a tattered scrap of paper, that he held shakily in his hands.

**_Dear Father,_**

"What you got there, Pete?" Edmund asked curisously, walking over to him. Peter hastily snatched it back away into his chest, to save it from prying eyes.

"Is that another letter from one of your girlfriends back home?" Edmund teased as he saw his brother's jumpiness.

"Not hardly," he mumbled under his breath.

"He's been readin' that thing for hours, Ed. Don't exspect him to just hand it over to you," Susan said exasperatedly, folding her arms in disapproval.

_And here they go again,_ Peter thought to himself as Edmund and Susan went off on one of their long rants. Usually they tried to drag Peter into the whole thing, but not this time. No. Not this time. He was going to get out of this before it even got started. The boy folded his paper very carefully and slowly along its crinkled folds, and stuffed it back into the safty of his pocket. And while they two were wrapped up in their arguement about who-knows-what, he slipped slyly out of the library door into the hallway and out beyond, to the many corridors of the vast mansion.

XxX

He _had_ to get away from that. He couldn't take another arguement again. Ever since they got back through the wardrobe, all the siblings had been fighting and bickering and everything inbetween. The whole senario was driving them all insane. Not knowing what was going to happen next, or why fate had brought them to Narnia and then booted them back out, was driving them mad. And questions they would ask aloud about such matters, would only stir up the others and drive them more insanly anticy.

A heavy sigh heaved from Peter's chest as he walked, further and further away, til his siblings bickering faded into the walls around him. He climbed deeper into the mansion, turning through doors and up stair cases, down corridors and past piles of armor and stuffy furniture that made up its decor. Until finally, he was face to face with a narrow stair case, that lead up into the darkness of nowhere. And his curiousity gripped him tight. He could feel it boil up inside of him, and it dragged him along, step by step...up the creaky stairs...


	3. The Lost Book of Narnia

Disclaimer: No...Narnia's not mine or anything like that!...all C.S. Lewis's genious! But I do own the story line and the characters that are unfirmilar to you!

Author Note: Okies guys! Here's chappy 3! Sorry it took forever! I'm having major writers block and the next few chapters might change up. I also might be very late in updating future chappy's, because I have to get my thoughts in order and discuss some themes with Adalee Bishop and stuff. We always get ideas for fanficcy's when we talk. This is the longest of my chappy's so far and I tried to get it to exspected and excelling form! Okies! I'm done rabblin'!...Here's chappy 3!...

**Chapter 3**

**_The Lost Book of Narnia_**

The stair case winded up and up, becoming increasingly steeper as he climbed on. Peter cautiously felt his way up through the blinding darkness. The air became cold and clammy and froze Peter's insides, but yet he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The darkness was calling him, dragging him, telling him, _'just one more step, just one more.'_ The thick darkness around him, filled up his lungs and swarmed in his inside, mixing with his hot breath and coming out in white clouds. He no longer was able to rely on his eyes, though. They failed him now. His feet and arms lead him on, loyally taking him higher with caution.

He streched his arms out further and further infront of him as he climbed. Until his fingers, unexspectedly, colladed into something that blocked him from climbin any higher, and he cursed in pain.

"Bloody door!" he hissed, cradling his stubbed fingers.

After the slight shock wore off, he felt around for the door handle, and upon finding it, turned to open it.

_Locked._

Of course. That's always the way the story goes...right?

Peter shoved his whole weight against the door, and it challanged him, not budging. He kicked it, in frustation, only to end up hurting his toe and jumping around in agony. His other foot slipped off the step and his face colladed into the hard wood of the door. He couldn't believe it! He was getting beat up by a door! If Edmund were here, he'd get a real kick out of his clumsy brother, jumping around like a confused baboon.

Peter could feel a trickle of blood start to flow its way to his lips, and he whipped it away, quickly, with his sleave.

"Open up!" he said. He wasn't about to turn around after climbing what seemed forever. Up a steep, dark stair case that lead to some, obviously secret room, only to turn around and meet his sibling's bickering, _again_.

"Open sesame! ... Umm... Open says me!...Knock knock?... Please?"

Finally he'd had enough. He balled up his fist and banged on the door, and, to much to his suprise, it swung open.

"Of course," he muttered, more to the door than himself, "all I had to do was knock." the coment escaped his lips sourly as he walked through, and the door swung back, smacking him in the back, on into the room.

Peter picked himself up off the floor and turned in a hurry to look back at the wooden door, that seemed to have sprung to life on him.

"That hurt," he muttered, rubbing his be-hind. The air around him seemed to cackle in laughter, but then he noticed, it was just a fire crackling in the huge fireplace before him.

XxX

Piles of books and shelves of them, rose up around Peter. The flames in a grand fireplace roared, and a few books lay open by a plush chair, begging their reader to come back and finish them. Outside a huge window, Peter could see the many snow flakes from the blizzard, fall to their fate. The view was beautiful of the snow capped mountians, just barley visable at Peter's high postion in the mansion. Then he realized where he was.

He was in the tallest tower. He and his siblings had seen it from the outside of the house, but never found a way to get to it. Even in their great expidentional explores, they were unable to find the hidden room at the top. And now, here Peter stood, in the beauty of being the first to find it.

His thoughts were lost in the swarming snow flakes as he stood, lost outside the window. And his blue eyes, caught up in a gaze, travled with the blanket that covered the world outside the window. His thoughts drifted downwards with the obsessive flurries, and his mind stopped. His blood stopped. His heart stopped. Eveything stopped. And Peter was lost in the moment of the snow tumbling down, down, down. And he realized, it wasn't really the end of them. The ground wasn't really their doom.

His face was only inches away form the window pane. His breath had left a cloud on the window's glass. He felt childish as he drew a small smily face into it, and then smiled at himself and his work. So simple.

Suddenly, Peter snapped back into character. He shook the thoughts from him as though they were pestering flies. His attentioned turned to the room he was in and everything in it.

The books on the shelves were ancient and thick. Old world maps and posters were plastered on free walls and the book cases raised up into the high ceiling, like mountians, making him feel so small. So unimportant. But this place was perfect in its sucludeity. It was quiet, but thanks to the fire, it wasn't an eerie silence. It was homey in its spacousness, and Peter slowly walked to one of the many plush chairs and made himself at home, infront of the grand fireplace.

It danced joyfully infront of him as he proped his feet up on the ottomen. He was captivated by it for awhile before his hand rested on his pocket and his letter to his father screamed to be opened. He carefully took it out, throwing away a piece of lint as he did.

**_Dear Father,_**

Was that all he was able to write? Was that all he was able to say to his dad, off risking his life for, not only his family, but for strangers he didn't even know? Strangers that didn't even deserve to be saved? People, that only knew what was happing from their radios? Strangers that where so unappreciative of the people out there, dying for them.

Peter's insides turned cold, eventhough the room was toasty from the fire. He didn't want to think about this! He always felt sick to his stomache whenever the topic shoved its way back into his bussy head. And he turned his attention back to his mission. His mind always drew blank when he reached the end of that comma. What was he _supposed_ to say? He never really _knew_ his father in a way he could just strike up a conversation. Peter spoke to him, when spoken to, and that was all the only communication they ever had, other than the two watching the stars. And that, his father didn't mind. Though they didn't speak a word, not one, it was an unspoken agreement that this was 'bonding'.

Every new moon, little Peter would scamper after his father, down to the 'highest hill', though his father never asked him to come. And they'd spread out a blanket and lay there watching the bursting stars, so bright from the invisable moon. And well up into the night, so that his mother would have to come chasing after them and shooing them back to the house, ranting all the way home. His father would smiled to himself the whole way back, and would gaze every-so-often to his beautiful wife, as she carried on with her nagging. And then, Peter remembered, when they got home, and he and his siblings had been tucked into bed, snuggly, he'd hear soft music from downstairs. He'd climb down the small stair case and peek around the cornor to see his parents waltzing around to lite classical music, humming from the record player. And they would be perfect. Just perfect. Dancing around, with only the light of the tiny stars to eluminate them. But they glowed with a light all their own. And Peter would smile, his small dimples tracing his cheeks, and slowly trek his way back to his room, leaving them at a romantic, blissful, waltz. And one. two. three. four. turn. two. three. four.

**_Dear Father,_**

Peter lost himself in his thoughts again, until a book under his proped feet fell onto the floor, mad at his carelessness to move it out from under him before he sat up his lazy feet. Peter, hastily picked up the ancient book, and placed it on the table beside him, but not before his eyes caught sight of the old cover. And he took it back in his hands, and gazed upon it.

His heart froze up inside of his chest. His shaking fingers traced over the barely-there title, just to make sure he wasn't going mad. The green cover was hard and worn, yet its pages seemed to be dying for a reader to glance at its marvolus ink. T-H-E.

Peter traced and continued on with the rest, until he'd finally come to the conclusion that it was really there. It was really the title. It really was printed in curly gold ink. **_The Lost Book of Narnia._**


End file.
